Four Words
by Hobbit985
Summary: Three short stories focussing on four important words. House, Torchwood and Doctor Who. Please R&R!
1. House

A whole week after he first woke up and House still hadn't uttered a word. At first the others had suspected brain damage and Cuddy had been worried that House might never be the same again, but after suggesting some tests to find out the extent of the damage she realised just how wrong she was when House snapped at her.

It wasn't that the maverick doctor couldn't talk; it was just that he didn't want to. Somehow that was more worrying than brain damage. It was like House had finally given up.

House didn't really want to think about anything or talk to anyone until he'd seen Wilson again. He knew that the Oncologist hadn't been in to work since Amber died and House also knew Cuddy had kept his friend regularly updated with his own status. Since Wilson hadn't returned to the hospital House had to assume that he was hated.

_You can't always get what you want._

That was the other reason he didn't want to talk to anybody. He'd been lying when he'd snapped at Cuddy and told her he was fine. He wasn't. Either that or he'd have to start believing in the afterlife and that was never going to happen.

From the moment he'd woken up Amber had been sat in the chair across the room. She hadn't said anything, just sat there smiling at him when he could no longer avoid her gaze. House had decided that it was probably the stress of being in a bus crash and having a heart attack and seizure all in less than forty eight hours that was resulting in his guild manifesting in a physical form.

The worst part was House knew he deserved everything he got. He should've died in that bus crash. He should've remembered earlier what was killing Amber. He should've been able to save the one thing his best friend loved.

He also knew that there was no point moping and feeling sorry for himself, so he had refused to face up to it, ignoring Amber as much as possible. He certainly wasn't going to mention to anyone else that she was sat there.

By the time Tuesday rolled around again though, House was getting annoyed. Just how long did he have to put up with this?

"Will you go away?" He snapped finally. It was a bad idea talking to a hallucination, especially if Cuddy got hold of the CCTV footage, but he needed answers. Even if he was technically getting them from himself.

"No," Amber shook her head, still smiling softly.

"What do you want?" House asked.

"Nothing," Amber watched him closely. "I'm just here as a reminder."

"I don't need reminder that it's my fault you're dead," House sighed, lying back on the bed. His head was killing him.

"That's not what I'm a reminder for," Amber replied.

House frowned and looked at her again.

"Then what are you supposed to be reminding me?"

"You resented me for dating James," Amber continued.

"I didn't... I was... I was glad he was happy," House shrugged. He'd been uncomfortable when he thought this was about him killing her, but talking about his feelings towards Amber and Wilson's relationship was not something he wanted to talk about. Especially with himself.

"I know," Amber crossed her legs. "But you still resented the fact that for once, he had someone else."

"Fine, I... I was jealous," House rolled his eyes. "Happy now?"

"Why were you jealous? You knew I'd never stop you seeing him," Amber looked at him almost sadly now. "I know we had that deal, but that was just in the heat of the moment."

"You don't know what it's like to have to let someone go," House clutched the bed sheets in pain. He felt like his head was going to explode. Again.

"Yes I do," Amber shook her head. "Come on. What's the real reason?"

"I didn't resent you for taking him away," House said quietly, eyes closed. "I resented you for being more important. I hated the way he looked at you. You meant so much more to him than I ever will. He loved you more than he'll ever love me."

"He loves you-"

"Not in the same way," House growled out through gritted teeth. "And I hated myself for not being able to save you. If I couldn't have him all to myself then I at least wanted him to be happy and you did that. You made him happier than I've seen him in years and I killed you. What kind of friend does that make me?"

"You tried-"

"Not good enough," House sighed, rubbing his head with his hands. "It's never good enough. I messed up his marriages and I murdered you. I don't want him to hate me, but it's no more than I deserve. I was a crappy friend and a crappy doctor. Why couldn't I save you?"

"You can't always get what you want," Amber said, repeating her words from the bus.

"I wanted it for him," House opened his eyes and found his vision blurred. "Even when I didn't remember it was you dying, I knew I had to save you. I almost killed myself for you... for him. But it wasn't enough."

"That's it," Amber stood up and stalked over, arms folded, frowning at him. "Stop it right now."

"What?" House looked at her confused.

"This self-pitying thing. It doesn't become you and it's stupid," Amber said firmly.

"Oh great, even my own subconscious is pissed at me," House sighed.

"James is still your friend even if he hates you," Amber leant right over House. "He is not going to throw away twelve years of friendship just because you dragged me to that bar and ended up inadvertently killing me. He will, however, start to consider throwing it away if all you do is sit here feeling sorry for yourself. So get your sorry ass out of bed and go and find him."

"He's not here," House protested. "And I'm never going to make it out the hospital."

"He's in his office," Amber said, relenting a little. "Go to him."

"Why are you doing this?" House began to climb out of bed.

"Because..." Amber faltered, looking down. "James needs someone. It might not seem like it now. But he needs you."

House limped to the doorway, dragging his IV with him. He paused in the doorway, glancing back at Amber. She smiled sadly and House nodded ever so slightly.

"Bye House," she said quietly.

"Bye Amber," House replied, using her name for once.

It was only when he was halfway up to Wilson's office that he realised just how mad it was to follow a hallucinations instructions. Still, he'd got this far, if Wilson wasn't in, he could nip into his own office and claim he was looking for his game boy.

House hesitated in front of Wilson's office door before knocking quietly. There was no answer. House opened the door carefully and saw Wilson leaning his forehead against the window, looking out onto the balcony, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks. It was raining outside and the distant rumble of thunder was just audible.

House shut the door behind him with a soft click. He pulled the IV across the room and stood next to Wilson. He was a little wary being this close to fists that could so easily reach him, but then he thought back over all the years he'd known Wilson and realised that his friend, no matter how angry, had never raised a hand to him.

"I'm sorry," House began, knowing there was nothing he could say to make things better and that sorry was probably the last thing he needed to hear. But it was the first thing House had to say.

"You never even liked her," Wilson whispered, sounding very hollow to House's ears.

"I did," House replied quietly. "I just didn't like the fact that you loved her more than me."

Wilson glanced briefly away from the rain to shoot House a dark look. House looked down. This was going to be tough. At least Wilson was talking to him.

"I just..." House faltered. "I know I'm probably the last person you want to talk to. I just wanted you to know I'm here... if you ever feel like venting."

"Thanks," Wilson didn't sound like he meant it.

House sighed and turned, limping slowly back towards the door and opening it carefully. His head was hurting again.

"Don't..." He hesitated not sure now was the time to tell Wilson this. "Don't let this put you off. Amber was good for you."

Wilson didn't look away from the window, but House saw the look of hurt pass over his friend's face. House wished there was something he could do to make things better.

"I know you hate me, but if there's any chance we could still be friends... or if there's anything I could do to make you happy..." House sighed again. He should really get out of the hole while he still could.

He made to leave when a voice behind him said the best four words he'd ever heard in his life. Of all the things to come from Wilson's mouth, that was probably the best thing. He'd expected abuse, he'd expected the silent treatment, but he hadn't expected those four words.

"I don't hate you."


	2. Torchwood

Jack had lost many people in the two thousand odd years he'd spent on the earth. No matter how many people he had to say goodbye too, it never got any easier, and it didn't seem to matter how long ago it had happened the pain never seemed to diminish.

Tosh and Owen had been no different. Their deaths had hit them all hard, but Jack found it especially difficult when the person who had murdered them was the brother he'd had to lose twice.

He knew that Gwen and Ianto didn't blame him for what had happened, but he certainly blamed himself. If all those years ago he'd kept hold of his brother's hand then none of this would ever have happened. Owen and Tosh would still be alive and well. Then again, they wouldn't know each other. If Jack had never lost Gray, he would never have joined the Time Agency or met the Doctor and Rose which meant he would never have taken over Torchwood Cardiff.

To think that so many events rested on one mistake he had made over two thousand years in his past made his head spin. Jack sighed and rested his head against the cool glass of the window, staring out into the dark night.

The lights of Cardiff city were twinkling in the distance and if Jack cleared his mind of everything he could almost pretend that the city hadn't suffered at the hands of his little brother only three days before hand.

Jack was startled out of reverie by a hand sliding onto his shoulder and squeezing gently. He didn't have to turn to know it was Ianto. After sending John back through the rift and making Gwen promise to stay home, Jack had gone back to Ianto's flat with the Welshman and neither of them had left.

"You should go back to bed," Jack said quietly, his breath frosting the glass.

"Can't sleep," Ianto slipped his hand down Jack's arm and laced his fingers with Jack's. "Besides, bed's cold without you."

Jack almost smiled.

"How can you be so..." Jack paused turning to look at Ianto. "Alright?"

"Well I'm not that alright," Ianto shrugged. "But I guess... it's easier not to break down when you've had as much practise as I have."

"You shouldn't have had to deal with all this at twenty five," Jack shook his head apologetically.

"Nearly twenty six," Ianto protested. "Not sure I'll be in the mood for a party mind."

"Oh god Ianto..." Jack squeezed his hand gently. "I forgot, its next week isn't it?"

"Yeah," Ianto nodded. "Doesn't matter."

"Yes it does," Jack replied. He turned back to the window and sighed. "I've messed everything up."

"No you haven't," Ianto said firmly.

"I should've been able to save them," Jack whispered.

"You can't save everyone," Ianto stepped in front of Jack so the other man was forced to look at him.

"I should've been a better big brother," Jack glanced at Ianto.

"You did your best," Ianto assured him.

"One day I'm going to lose you too," Jack could hardly see Ianto now through his blurred vision.

"No you won't," Ianto pulled Jack closer in an attempt to comfort him.

"You can't know that," Jack said gently.

"Well if you do, it won't be your fault ok?" Ianto promised. They stood in silence for a moment, watching each other. "Come back to bed."

Jack took one last look out of the window at the city and nodded. Ianto led him gently by the hand back towards what was now their bedroom. Once they'd climbed back into bed, Jack pulled Ianto close, kissing his hairline.

"Jack?"

"Mm," Jack pulled back far enough to look at Ianto.

"Just promise me you'll remember one thing?" Ianto said seriously. Jack nodded, frowning slightly, wondering what Ianto needed him to remember.

"It wasn't your fault."


	3. Doctor Who

He didn't know exactly what it was that drove him to Shakespeare but after the frankly unnecessarily miserable day he'd had the Doctor had sought the company of the great playwright. Maybe he was just fulfilling the time line; after all he knew this visit had to happen someday.

"Doctor! To what to I owe this pleasure?" Shakespeare stood up and smiled as he shook the Doctor's hand.

The Doctor had found Shakespeare working on a few sonnets in a pub and sat down at the table with him. He didn't bother to ask how exactly the other man already knew him. Spoilers and all. Shakespeare obviously noticed the completely hopeless look on the Doctor's face.

"Are you alright?"

"I think I just lost my Juliet," the Doctor replied managing a weak smile.

"Juliet... that's a good name," Shakespeare scratched his chin. "I may have to use that in the new play I am writing."

The Doctor felt like crying. It was almost too much to know that the reference he was trying to make was paradoxically lost on the playwright before him.

"But let us be serious for a moment," Shakespeare leant forward and looked at the Doctor carefully. "Something has happened to make you..."

He gestured at the dishevelled man before him. The Doctor sighed and rubbed his face with his hands tiredly. He had lost too many people on his travels and this time the grief was taking its toll.

"Do you want a drink? I'm buying," the Doctor said suddenly standing up. Somehow he knew this was a conversation he couldn't have sober.

He was right. Six and a half ale's later, he and Shakespeare were making nuisances of themselves, singing loudly. It was easier to forget if you had other things on your mind. Eventually though even a drunk Shakespeare remembered that the Doctor was drinking to forget.

"Doctor, my friend," he began again. "Perhaps it would be best if you told me what had turned you into the shadow of the man I used to know."

"I... I lost someone..." the Doctor began.

"Miss Martha?" Shakespeare enquired.

The Doctor frowned slightly. Evidently he had someone else travelling with him when he had first met Shakespeare.

"No... someone else..." The Doctor sighed slightly. "Someone I loved."

"Ah, I know only too well of losing loved ones," Shakespeare said gently.

"Yes, but... if you don't mind me saying," the Doctor continued. "You turn your misery into something constructive. Look at all the brilliant plays you've written."

"It's nothing really," Shakespeare said, though the small smile of pride told a different story. "Right now though... I seem to have lost my muse. I just can't finish this sonnet."

"Let me take a look," the Doctor said. He glanced over the first few scribbled lines. "You can finish this easy!"

"You think?"

"Course!" The Doctor wrote down the next line. "There you go, see what you can make of that."

A few hours and several more drinks later Shakespeare had finished the sonnet. After that it all got a bit hazy for the Doctor. When he awoke he was inside the TARDIS and his head was killing him. _Never again..._ He always promised himself it would be the last time he drank but he inevitably never kept to the promise.

Sighing he got out of the bed he'd managed to stumble to and went to find the carefully folded piece of paper that he kept stored in a box with the rest of Rose's stuff. Pulling it out he began to read.

_To the most strange and wonderful man in the universe,_

_I hope one day you find the peace you so sorely crave,_

_But until then I have written this as a reminder that you_

_Are not alone in your grief,_

_W.S._

_O never say that I was false of heart,_

_Though absences seemed my flame to qualify,_

_As easy might I from my self depart,_

_As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:_

_That is my home of love, if I have ranged,_

_Like him that travels I return again,_

_Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,_

_So that my self bring water for my stain,_

_Never believe though in my nature reigned,_

_All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,_

_That it could so preposterously be stained,_

_To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:_

_For nothing this wide universe I call,_

_Save thou my Rose, in it thou art my all_

The Doctor knew full well that it was a veil for the man Shakespeare loved. But the reference to himself was nice. It was a comfort to know he wasn't the only one who suffered, that he wasn't completely alone.

A small snippet of the conversation they'd had the night before began to float back to him. He smiled slightly and folded the paper up, slipping it inside his coat pocket. He decided that he needed it close for now in case he needed to read it again. He knew the sonnet off by heart, but it was nice to see the words.

_"Doctor, what was the name of your friend?"_

_"Her name was Rose."_


End file.
